


Bird Watching

by nanaa127



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: M/M, Peter rambles a lot, Post Moon Over Soho, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-28 22:40:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17796089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nanaa127/pseuds/nanaa127
Summary: Peter discovers how Nightingale maintains his figure.





	Bird Watching

Breakfast at the Folly - or any meal, for that matter - was very often a full-scale production of massive proportion, the gastronomic equivalent of a Beyoncé show. Not that I had first hand knowledge of what that was like, but Lesley had been suitably impressed when she'd gone and she'd informed me that her opinion on such matters was unassailable, so who was I to argue? I'll admit I don't half mind a good fry-up every once in a while, but earlier this morning I could hear my arteries screaming mercy as I had faced off against a fourth consecutive day of fried eggs, fried tomatoes, fried bacon, fried sausages and fried bread glistening with butter. There had also been a steaming platter of black pudding and a bowl of fried mushrooms; they were new additions to the spread, because what our morning meal definitely needed was more food. Even Nightingale had looked a bit daunted when he strolled into the breakfast room, decked out in what he considered to be his daily casual wear and what I considered to be fit for a night at the opera or whatever sort of expensive activity posh people got up to. 

"Well. I see Molly has outdone herself once again," he had murmured after greeting me with a smile, neatly unbuttoning his jacket as he took a seat. He'd dutifully piled food onto his plate, helping himself to a bit of everything, as he always did. I followed suit, mainly because I hadn't wanted to start my weekend on a diet of Molly's disapproving glares. I assumed that the fact that Molly kept plying us with a cardiologist's nightmare meant that either Nightingale wasn't recovering from his relapses quickly enough for her tastes, or she was engaging in a long game of murder by way of atherosclerosis. The color had returned to my governor's face, which wasn't saying much considering how pale Nightingale was on a good day, but he also didn't have that drawn look anymore. His bespoke threads still hung a little loose on his frame, but he'd gained back a few of the kilos he'd lost, probably thanks to Molly's ongoing crusade.

When I had moved into the Folly with Nightingale to better carry out my apprentice duties, including all the mundane tasks DCIs couldn't be arsed to do themselves, I'd quickly learned that Molly's repertoire of recipes was generally more appropriate for farmers chasing sheep all day than a bunch of magical old white men throwing forma parties and sipping brandy whilst discussing the latest news from the demi-monde. Many things about Nightingale were still a mystery to me despite having lived with the man for almost a year, up to and including the question as to where he put all those rich suet puddings and sweetmeats that Molly had presumably been feeding him for nearly a century. They certainly weren't making themselves at home on his waistline as far as I could tell.

The first time I'd laid eyes on Nightingale, I'd given him a once over like any good copper would have and two things had immediately stood out. First was that his gorgeous suit would have probably cost about three months of my constable salary, which in my mum's opinion was much less than it should be but in my opinion was still a neat chunk of change. The follow up was that he wore it like second skin and looked damn good in it, with broad shoulders and narrow waist and hips that were properly emphasized by the fine cut of the clothing. I'd pegged him as old money because you just don't look that comfortable wearing that kind of clothing without having a silver spoon shoved between your gums the second you pop out into the world. At the time, I hadn't known exactly how old, and I still don't know how much money. Finances at the Folly are little better than a black box, and Nightingale is a bit vague on the details. Asking how much bank he was personally rolling also seemed a bit forward at this point in our relationship.

Watching him now, it became clear that Nightingale came by that trim figure the old-fashioned way, which was something of a disappointment because I was kind of hoping that standing around throwing spells would be a good calorie burner. On the other hand, the need to find time for actual exercise meant that I was treated to the sight of Nightingale doing push-ups of all things in the little gym that was hidden in the depths of the Folly. 

Until recently, I've never really had reason to wonder whether I'm gay or even bi-sexual. The closest I've probably come to being mildly bi-curious was that one time that I kissed my mate Will Smith - no relation to the American actor - on a drunken dare when I was right in the middle of bombing my A-levels. It had been fine, but not exactly revelatory and no offense to Will but the quality of the snog hadn't been quite up to snuff with ten pints sloshing between the two of us. That's not to say I can't recognize a fit bloke when I see one, but it just so happened that all of the people I thought I might actually like to bang were of the female persuasion. Right until the point I met Nightingale, apparently.

Not that it had started with me wanting to get a leg over with him. Any admiration that might have spiraled out of control that first evening we met had immediately come to a screeching halt when he'd shown me his warrant card and then frantically backpedaled once I swore my apprentice oath and he officially became my governor. While anyone that knows me might falsely suggest that I'm an enthusiastic purveyor of bad ideas, there are some lines that even I try not to cross, and lusting after my boss is one of them. Unfortunately, my subconscious never really had much use for common sense, and it went on its merry way wondering various sundry things about Nightingale that I hoped to God would never surface to see the light of day, such as what he might look like stripped of all that Savile Row tailoring.

His palms and feet were planted firmly into the mats, and the line of his spine was long and straight in a stiff plank as he lowered himself all the way to the floor, his elbows reaching a military-precise ninety degrees before he raised himself back up. Up and down and up and down he went, his form textbook and the motion effortless. I made a mental note to work on my own form before doing push-ups anywhere Nightingale could actually witness them. Eventually he let himself drop with a small grunt, rolled over and lay sprawled on the mat as his chest heaved up and down. He looked so loose and relaxed that not even the anticipation of a stern lecture from OPC on avoiding pervy thoughts about my superior officers could stop me from creeping on my governor. Apparently, the only thing that could stop that train was Molly. I'm not saying that I screamed, but I might have made a very quiet and very dignified noise as she materialized out of nowhere with a full tray in hand as I stood there staring at my boss. She swept past me into the gym and placed the tea and nosh on a small table. Giving Nightingale a pointed look - definitely still fattening him up - she poured out a single cup and then glided away, gracing me with a disdainful sniff on her way out.

Of course at that point Nightingale couldn't help but notice his apprentice hanging about the doorway, and I silently thanked my mum for her love, patience and dark skin. He pushed himself upright, smiled when he saw the unlaced boxing gloves dangling from my hands and waved me in. A similar pair rested near his feet.

"Peter. I didn't know you were a pugilist," he said, his grey eyes bright with interest. He took the tea Molly had left him and sat down again with his back against the wall and his knees bent. I helped myself to a chocolate biscuit - I'm a nervous eater - and sat next to him, momentarily not panicking as I tried to decide how close was too close. After dithering for a quick second I decided that half a meter was a safe, unsuspicious distance as I slid down to the floor.

"I'm not really, sir," I replied. Track and football had been more my speed at school. The first time I found the old gloves tucked away in a trunk, it had taken me about fifteen minutes and some personal instruction from my favorite teacher YouTube to figure out how they should be tied and to realize they weren't meant to be laced up by oneself. I gestured towards the heavy bag hanging from the ceiling. "I prefer punching things that can't punch back."

"Ah." He took a small sip of tea and leaned his head back. He glanced towards me, his eyes shrewd but surprisingly sympathetic. "Yes, I imagine that is very effective at relieving stress." 

I supposed 'stress' was one word for it. I immediately changed the subject. "Do you box, sir?" I asked.

Modern boxing had its roots in England, thanks to an abundance of blokes that didn't mind being repeatedly walloped in the face by a bare-knuckled fist for a few quid. British fighters had dominated for a long while, right up until the Americans got interested and began to outstrip us, as they tended to do in anything involving violent conduct. Service sport was popular for boosting morale in the military, and a sudden vision of a lean, army-fit Nightingale wearing nothing but a pair those high-waisted red satin boxing shorts, hair mussed and sweat streaming, pinged through my brain. I didn't know whether to laugh or to be turned on. I settled for shifting uncomfortably. 

"Actual boxing requires a partner, and I haven't had one in decades. Abdul isn't one for sports, and Molly, well..." Nightingale shrugged and gave a private, cheeky little grin, one that I didn't know he even had in his repertoire until recently. "The heavy bag won't glare and hiss at me."

I grinned back at him. "Won't fix you tea after sparring, either," I said. "When did you start?"

"At Casterbrook. The masters thought that we'd find less trouble if given the opportunity to release our adolescent aggressions in a somewhat controllable manner."

"Your masters must have been a bit foggy as to what teenagers are actually like," I guessed.

"Indeed," Nightingale agreed. "We were young boys living in close quarters and learning magical skills that skewed towards the destructive. Trouble was our favorite mate." There was a wistful note in his voice. "I'm sure we were quite frightful."

A herd of privileged little white boys running about tossing fireballs probably could have been considered a weapon of mass destruction - and I suppose had been, during Ettersburg - so 'frightful' sounded like a bit of an understatement to me, in standard Nightingale fashion. They seemed like happy memories for him, though, so I wisely kept my opinions to myself. Somewhere in Brightlingsea, I'm fairly sure that Lesley keeled over in shock at my display of mature restraint. Rather than going on and sticking my foot in it, I instead stupidly asked whether he'd teach me to box. 

I had absolutely no interest in actually learning the sport, but once Nightingale got over his momentary surprise, he looked chuffed enough that I couldn't take it back. "Of course," he said graciously. "I was never more than a passable fighter with my fists, but I'm certain I can demonstrate the basics." 

We stood and he helped me put my gloves on, jamming the plush old leather onto my fists and lacing them up firmly. Nightingale was wearing a pair of pressed khaki military-style trousers and a crisp white t-shirt - tucked in, obviously - that clung to him in spots where sweat had soaked the soft cotton. I noted in a very objective and professional manner that he looked just as good in his version of gym gear as he did in his finest three piece. He stood close enough that I could smell the salt on his skin, and it was accompanied by the faintest whiff of wet pine and smoke whenever his fingers grazed against my forearm. If I had bent forward just a little bit, I would have been able to brush my lips across the top of his head, which I suddenly realized was something I wanted very much to do. On the other hand, I very much didn't want to get kicked out of the Folly for coming onto my boss, and so instead I thought unsexy thoughts about lethal hyperthaumaturgical brain damage and drowning in the Tyburn. I also gave myself a mental pat on the back for dressing in my best urban delinquent outfit of loose track bottoms and oversized hoodie, otherwise I might have had some embarrassing explaining to do. 

Once I was properly gloved up, Nightingale showed me how to stand and move my feet. He talked me through the forms for basic punches, and of course there were forms to learn because this was Nightingale and my governor never met a form he didn't want to take home and adopt. He watched me with a critical eye as I threw a few at the heavy bag, and then pulled on his own gloves to illustrate what I should have been doing.

"Pretend the bag is your opponent. Don't swing your entire weight into your punch," he said, taking a quick jab. "You'll over-commit and be caught off balance if you miss."

"Hendon discouraged us from missing the first shot," I said. Actually, we were strongly discouraged from engaging in any sort of fisticuffs at all. Police beating on civilians was generally frowned upon, even if the civilian was really asking for it. The modern Met was a kinder, gentler law enforcement agency with an interest in developing strong ties with the community. More importantly, it didn't have enough money in its budget to deal with a bunch of lawsuits stemming from use of excessive force.

"Well, perhaps not when you're apprehending a criminal," Nightingale acknowledged. "But a boxing match is almost never over with the first blow. You want to strike quickly and maintain a good rhythm." He jabbed and then crossed, his body pivoting rapidly and then bouncing back into a relaxed fighting stance, his fists up by his head as if for protection. He boxed the way he did magic, efficiently and with the exact amount of power necessary to get the job done. It was much hotter than it rightly should have been. 

"Conserve your energy until the time is right," he continued. He danced around a bit and then came in with a harder hit. I'm sure that he was probably trying to impart some Very Important Life and Wizarding Wisdom along with his instruction, but I was a bit preoccupied with admiring the way the muscles in his back and arm flexed with each punch to really absorb much.

After a few more minutes, Nightingale grabbed a hold of the swinging bag, his breaths coming hard and fast. "That's it for me, I'm afraid. I don't quite have the stamina I used to," he said ruefully.

He'd been shot less than six months ago so that wasn't much of a surprise. I didn't know whether he was still in danger of relapsing or what would trigger one, but being bookended by an irate Dr. Walid on one side and a terrifyingly annoyed Molly on the other wasn't really high on my bucket list, so I just said, "That's fine. I think I've seen enough to get the idea."

"Good," Nightingale said approvingly. "You're a quick study, Peter." I got the idea he wasn't just talking about the boxing.

"It helps to have a good teacher," I said. I honestly had no idea whether Nightingale actually was a good teacher since he was literally the only teacher I had available, but he seemed almost shyly pleased which was enough for me. It was easy to forget that this apprentice deal was as new to him as it was to me.

"Perhaps we should add this to your lessons," Nightingale suggested as he pulled off his own gloves and then reached for my hands. A few strands of hair had flopped over his forehead as they made a daring escape from the light slick of pomade Nightingale used to smooth back his hair. It was a good thing my hands were currently still imprisoned, otherwise I might have done something very inadvisable.

Did I really want to be confronted by a sweaty, physical Nightingale on a regular basis? Especially if he was dressed in nothing more than a t-shirt and slacks, which was about as unclothed as I'd ever seen him? My self-restraint said it was a terrible idea, but my id was practically jumping up and down for joy. Three guesses as to which side won out.

"Sure," I replied. "That sounds great."

**Author's Note:**

> Mentions of boxing in later books led to this bit of rambliness. Also, I am American and not English. I feel kind of silly about the British-isms I snuck in, so if they're not right please let me know and I'll fix. Thanks for reading!


End file.
